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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24262453">Don't Look Back</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/thephoenixwitch/pseuds/thephoenixwitch'>thephoenixwitch</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>LeATHERMØUTH, My Chemical Romance</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>AU, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - No My Chemical Romance, Artist Gerard Way, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Frank Iero Is A Little Shit, Frerard, M/M, MCR, New Jersey, Olive Garden??, Punk Frank Iero, art school Gerard, petekey</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 22:54:33</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,433</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24262453</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/thephoenixwitch/pseuds/thephoenixwitch</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Gerard took the shitty Olive Garden job because art school doesn't pay for itself, and neither will his west-coast aspirations of relocation. Frank took the job, because, well-- Gerard isn't entirely sure. Something about a mediocre punk band, something about a tour, who cares. All Gerard knows is that the moment this guy was hired, he hasn't had one damn moment of peace. Then again, maybe chaos is growing on him.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Frank Iero/Gerard Way</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>25</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. 1. A Brief Reflection on Guys With Black Flag Tattoos</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Gerard considered himself to be of Type B set of artists: Type A were the Andy Warhols of the world, awash in their own ego and boisterous theater. Type B were the absolute wallflowers who hated themselves and their art, and often wondered why the hell they did it in the first place. Of course, every so often Gerard found himself in a trance holding the paintbrush and busting out something beautiful-- just for one little moment of clarity, of salience. And then it would all come back down to earth again, and he'd go to bed at 3 AM wondering once more what The Point was again. </p><p>Last night had been such a night. When he was called in early to help clean, he was groggy and running on somewhere between two and four splintered hours of sleep. He couldn't be too mad about it, though, seeing as rent was due soon and if anyone in his apartment complex was planning on staging an elaborate strike, they hadn't mentioned it to him. He needed the cash. He could get up early and clean in a coffee-fueled haze, no big deal. Apart from the trainee.</p><p>It went something like this: Gerard stumbled in through the back door of the restaurant, and there was Ray, smiling widely and in an ominously apologetic fashion. </p><p>"Hey! Thanks so much for coming in early, dude. Listen, Matt just reminded me we've got a new guy in, you think you could take over training?" Ray asked. He motioned to a short, absurdly tatted man in the doorway of the kitchen. Short Guy just waved lazily, sporting an indifferent grin. To be fair, Ray<em> had </em> been carrying the brunt of the observations for the new summer hires. In the interest of not being a dick, Gerard agreed. For some cursed fucking reason, he had decided by the end of the day. </p><p>A fresh named tag that read <em>Frank </em>was haphazardly attached to the black button up this Frank guy totally didn't even try to iron. Dude looked like some douchebag from Gerard's high school who would've blasted Minor Threat out of a 2007 Prius or something. For a brief moment Gerard considered the feeling of intimidation, but what was this kid gonna do? He was, like, four feet tall. Aggressively invite Gerard to a shitty basement show? </p><p>"Okay! Uh, I guess the first thing to get started on will be the oven. Have you worked in any food service before?" Gerard began. Frank snorted. Ray shuffled away awkwardly, mouthing <em>good luck </em>in Gerard's general direction.</p><p>"...Right," Gerard muttered. "Any experience at all with...using kitchen appliances?"</p><p>"I can operate a toaster to the extent of making Pop-Tarts, if that counts," Frank shrugged. "I'm gonna guess that doesn't cut it, Eric Draven." He smirked. </p><p>"You like the Crow?" Gerard asked, perking up a little.</p><p>"Pssht. Fuck, no, I just think you have entirely too much dollar store eyeliner on," Frank responded. Gerard felt his cheeks warm slightly, and took a breath to refocus. </p><p>This was going to be a long shift. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Art v. Artist (Among Other Things)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The day only went downhill, not that there was any other direction to go. The Jersey public schools had just let out for the summer, which was to say loads of suburban entourages found their way into an Olive Garden, as was customary.  The schedule had been planned for this, but as was also customary, they were still understaffed. And Gerard still had to train this new guy, who's personality did not grow any less acidic with time in Gerard's opinion.</p><p>Frank-- as Gerard would come to learn, Frank Iero-- was only a couple years younger than Gerard but acted like about as insufferable as an Aderall-fueled high schooler. He was also not entirely keen on paying attention, well, at all. Very few times was Gerard able to explain something only once, with this dude either scrawling what seemed to be lyrics on a beaten legal pad or scrolling through his phone. Lazy <em>and </em>weird as hell, Gerard thought. Then again, he reminded himself, he was the one currently wearing Doom Patrol underwear, so maybe he ought to go easy on the judgement.</p><p>But Christ, was that difficult.</p><p>By the end of the shift Gerard had more or less dragged Frank through first day basics and had him begin waiting tables. Or one table, to be exact, which Frank didn't wait so much as he did completely fuck up.</p><p>"You, er, more or less know what to do, right?" Gerard asked skeptically as Frank tapped his pen against the order pad, very clearly chewing gum in spite of the food safety regulations. Gerard bit back a remark about it. Did he normally care about such bullshit rules? No. Was Frank just getting under his skin that much? Perhaps.</p><p>"Uh. Yeah. I mean, it's not AP Physics. God, my AP Physics teacher in high school sucked absolute ass. No wonder all these kids are bouncing off the wall. Temporary freedom from cunts like Mr. Goodwen," Frank said, a little too loudly. A woman at a nearby table raised an eyebrow.</p><p>"As long as you're sure," Gerard responded. "I'll still be observing, so don't worry about it too much." He was still attempting the whole kindness and reassurance thing. Maybe this was all Frank's way of expressing nervousness--</p><p>Frank scoffed. "Thanks for the <em>concern</em>."</p><p>
  <em>Right.</em>
</p><p>It took a matter of minutes before this guy forgot how to even ask for the tables' orders, much less take them properly. Frank just stood there, stupidly, waving Gerard away dismissively while simultaneously muttering, "Uhhh...so what do you guys think you'll be having?..." Jesus fucking christ, this was beyond parody. Gerard quickly nudged Frank away from the table, shooting him a glare and finishing the job for him. The family at table seven just looked awkwardly between the two waiters, Frank's hands shoved in his pockets somewhere between his typical indifference and rare embarrassment. </p><p>"You're kidding me," Gerard whispered as the two headed back into the kitchen. Frank shrugged. "Learning process, isn't it?"</p><p>When Gerard finally left that night, he said nothing. Partially out of spite, but also because Frank had already left, a fake leather jacket worn on only one arm and a cigarette dangling between his teeth as he climbed into an ancient sedan and drove off. Ray watched the car clunk its way out of the parking lot with Gerard, scratching his head. </p><p>"How'd this guy get hired, exactly?" Gerard finally asked, collecting his tips and a lukewarm Styrofoam box of pasta as he threw his bag over his shoulder.  Ray sighed. "Alright, he's not that bad, Gerard. Although--" he groaned-- "--he forgot to clock out, so that's great."</p><p>"Shocker," Gerard muttered. </p><p>"Honestly? I don't know. Management's standards aren't terribly high at this point, and someone had to take it. That kid's...a character, I'll give him that. Just don't stress about it. He'll do fine...eventually. We're all stuck in this less than ideal job for the time being. Although I have a feeling that <em>you, </em>at least, won't be for too much longer." Ray twirled the key ring around his finger and gave Gerard and smile. "Take care," he said, giving Gerard a pat on the back and pushing open the back door for him. </p><p>"You too," Gerard said, somewhat halfheartedly. </p><p>"Seriously. You're going places, and you'll get there soon enough. Don't stress." </p><p>"That's the big trick, isn't it?"</p><p>***</p><p>Tonight was not a Manic-Art-Creating night. As absurd as it was, Gerard stared at the canvas that was <em>supposed </em>to house his summer project, but nothing further came to light in the acrylic-splashed fabric. The level of artistic block going on, in fact, was enough to create a bit of a sinking feeling just looking at the thing. Obviously, nothing was going to get done like this. If this was any indication of how Gerard's senior year of undergrad was going to go--</p><p>No. We're not entertaining those thoughts tonight, Gerard reaffirmed. Instead he entertained an ancient VHS of <em>Outer Limits </em>reruns and went to bed, the old box television stir murmuring as he fell asleep and let the breeze of the cracked apartment window brush off the entire day.</p><p>The next morning when Gerard got to work, Frank was aggressively jiggling the front door of a shitty New Jersey Olive Garden. Frank stopped, panting and leaning against the door frame. "Don't say it. Don't fucking say it. It's the wrong entrance. It's the wrong entrance, isn't it?" </p><p><em>Going places</em>. Going places far, far away from this one, Gerard hoped.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>So this AU idea was a request from a mutual on Twitter and long story short I simply cannot Stop myself. You're welcome! Or sorry, depending on your prerogative.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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